


To Those Who Look

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has freckles. They’re distracting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Those Who Look

**Author's Note:**

> I think I started writing this last March or maybe even earlier. The draft of this fic has been done for what feels like forever, but I've never been satisfied enough with it to post it until now. Thanks to everyone who looked this over for me, especially @mautadite, who did it twice. 
> 
> Warnings: Vague references to abuse. Less vague references to bullying & fat hate. Body insecurity. Sam and Jon are 18, in high school. They go to smooch town, but don't go past making out.
> 
> Comments of all lengths, critical and otherwise, are desperately welcome.

“You’re staying over, right?” Jon asks as the credits of _The Breakfast Club_ roll.

“Um, if that’s okay,” says Sam.

A smile tugs at Jon's mouth. "Sam," he says. "You've stayed over most nights this month. I _think_ you know it's okay by now." 

Sam goes pink. “Okay, yes then,” he says. 

"Thought so," says Jon. 

Sam's an exception to Mrs. Stark's no-sleepovers-on-weeknights rule. Knowing what Sam's father is like, she's never objected to Sam spending half his time under her roof. Or maybe it's because she doesn’t care much what Jon does. Either way, Jon's grateful. It's best if Sam spends as little time at the Tarlys' as possible.

“Anyway,” Jon says. “If I’m not driving you home, I’m gonna change now.”

Sam nods, reaching for his overnight bag, and Jon crosses the room to his dresser. They're not actually going to go to bed soon--it’s only eleven thirty. The sleep clothes are just for plausible deniability. They both know they're watching at least one more movie before bed. Still, it’s a school night, so they like to pretend they’ll be asleep before three AM.

Facing away from Sam, Jon wiggles out of his jeans and reaches for his sweatpants. The afternoon had been a nice one, if quiet. They listened to Sam’s newest Pandora station while Jon drove them back from school. When they got home, Ghost was waiting on the porch steps, tail thumping wildly. Then it was fetch with Ghost in the backyard. When they tired Ghost out, they went down to Jon’s room in the basement to procrastinate on homework with movies. 

Jon pulls off his hoodie and straightens his shirt. Without thinking, he turns to ask Sam whether he wants to watch _Mulan_ or _The Dark Crystal_. His eyes catch on a flash of pale skin.

Jon freezes. He hadn’t expected Sam to be still half dressed, the broad expanse of his back bared as he leans over to rummage through his bag. Flushing, Jon starts to turn back around, except then Sam stands suddenly upright and. Freckles. There are freckles all over Sam’s back. Hundreds of them, scattered across his shoulders, a golden array of sunspots. Jon's mouth goes dry.

Something not everyone knows about Sam is that there are freckles on his face. Normally, they’re light, faded little speckles only visible from close up. It’s almost impossible to see them otherwise, unless Sam’s recently gotten a lot of sun. Then his freckles are still relatively pale, but discernible to those who look.

Jon looks.

Stolen glances, mostly. Glimpses caught through his eyelashes. Fleeting peeks out of the corner of his eye. But sometimes, when Sam’s distracted, too absorbed in a book to notice, Jon can even watch him freely. Jon looks. More than he’d like to admit.

Jon's not sure when he started noticing the freckles. It doesn’t matter. They drive him to distraction. When he can see them, he wants to touch them, wants to count them. When he _can't_ see them, sometimes he remembers that they’re there and gets caught up wondering when he'll see them again.

Swallowing, Jon forces himself to avert his eyes. The hoodie he just took off is still twisted in his hands. He tries to focus on it, to think about something other than _freckles_ and _shirtless_ , but he can't quite stop his eyes from traveling back up to Sam's shoulders.

Jon hasn’t ever seen Sam without a shirt until now. Sam even wears one swimming, when he's convinced to get in the water at all; normally he won’t even do that. But even hidden by clothes Sam’s shoulders are distracting. They're broad, and soft, and there's a curve to them that makes Jon feel sort of helpless. And now they have _freckles_ splattered all over them, much darker than the ones on his face. Or—the freckles haven’t just shown up now. They must have always been there. Jon has been staring at shoulders that have always had freckles on them, he just didn’t know it. He’s never going to be able to look at Sam's shoulders _again_ without getting tingles up and down his spine, remembering this.

Involuntarily, Jon takes half a step forward. He stops immediately, scolding himself. He shouldn't be—it's not right to look at someone when they're undressing unless they—unless they want you to, which is. An unhelpful thought, because Jon's mind is now wandering to whether Sam would ever want Jon to watch him undress. None of this is conductive to Jon ripping his eyes away. He keeps thinking, if he could just get a closer look, if he could just count them—

"Jon?" Sam asks.

Jolting, Jon jerks his eyes away. Then, ashamed, he looks back up at Sam, meeting his gaze.

There’s a confused, almost hurt kind of look on Sam's face. It takes a moment for Jon to understand, and then it registers that Sam’s used to a different kind of staring.

"Sorry!" Jon says, panicking. "Sorry. I was just—you have freckles. On your back. I'd never noticed before."

"Oh," says Sam, quietly. He still looks nervous, or self-conscious maybe, his shoulders slumping in a bit as he sort of curls in on himself, holding his t-shirt defensively over his stomach, and Jon is the worst person in the world.

In an effort to fix his mistake, Jon starts babbling. "No no no I mean—that's not bad, they're not bad or anything," he says, cursing himself for the awkwardness. He clears his throat and tries again. "I mean they’re—I think they're nice, actually."

Jon swallows, looking down at the ground to try and regain his composure. He just sounded absolutely ridiculous, but he can’t bear the thought of Sam thinking the freckles were hideous or something. People have made Sam self-conscious about enough things; it would be awful if Jon added to the list. Guiltily, Jon glances up through his eyelashes at Sam, praying Sam believed him. _Please, please don't think I'm disgusted by you._

Sam doesn't look unhappy, nervous, or self-conscious anymore; mostly he looks bemused, but he's smiling. Jon sags in relief.

"Um, thank you," Sam says, laughing a bit.

He looks good when he smiles, better when he laughs. It draws attention to his full pink mouth, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges. It makes Jon not care if Sam's laughing at him. It doesn’t matter as long as he’s laughing. His laugh’s incredible—charming, infectious, sweet—and it makes Jon’s brain glitch.

Which is why Jon blurts out, "I wanted to count them."

As soon as the words are out, his brain jolts back. His entire being floods forcefully with regret and terror. Why did he say that. Oh, God. What a weird thing to say to your _best friend_. Blood rushes to his face. He opens his mouth to fix this somehow, laugh it off, but before he gets the chance, Sam speaks.

"What was that?" Sam asks, and then adds, sheepishly, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

Jon almost faints in relief.

"Nothing," he starts to say, except. If Sam doesn’t know what Jon said, he might think it was something negative. Jon can’t tell him the truth, obviously, unless… maybe if he plays it off like a joke?

"It was just, um," Jon says, aiming for nonchalant and landing at strained. "Just, you know, wondering how many there would be. If I counted them."

He tries to laugh, but only manages an awkward, pathetic little chuckle. It makes him want to curse himself all over again. When will he be able to go back to not embarrassing himself around Sam every five seconds? _Maybe once he puts his shirt back on,_ Jon thinks. His eyes stray back down to the curve of Sam's waist before he forces them back up to Sam's face.

The expression there surprises him. It's playful, his lips pursed as he pretends to give the matter serious thought.

"Sure," Sam says, smiling. "Why not?"

Jon didn’t hear that right. Or—Sam’s joking. He must be joking. Should Jon be laughing right now? Maybe he should just get Sam to repeat himself.

But as Jon opens his mouth to ask, Sam turns back around, facing away from him. Eyes widening, Jon swallows hard. His earlier _where-do-I-look_ panic returns, his gaze flicking frantically all over the room. But—Sam can’t see him. Sam is actively inviting him to look. To count.

Jon’s tongue has glued itself to the top of his mouth. It takes some effort to unstick it enough to speak.

"Um," Jon says, his voice only barely not cracking. "Okay."

Slowly, cautiously, Jon approaches him. It doesn’t seem real. The blood rush to his head is dizzying, making everything look dreamlike, hazy. His heart’s beating so hard he can hear it throbbing in his ears. 

When Sam is close enough to touch, Jon stops short. He tries to get his breathing back to normal, but can't seem to get enough air into his lungs. This close, he can smell a clean, lemony scent which must be Sam's shampoo.

And now that Jon has free reign to look, he’s stuck fixating on the tiny details. The indented line of Sam's spine, the folds under his shoulder blades, the crease where his arm meets his side, the little V where Sam's hairline ends at the nape of his neck. Then the freckles, sprinkled over his skin like pollen from wildflowers. Absurdly, Jon wants to breathe them in. 

He shakes his head to clear it, tamping the urge down. _Don’t make this weird, Snow,_ he tells himself. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he’s almost definitely the only person Sam would let do this. The thought makes him feel strange, wobbly, so he pushes it away and swallows.

Tentatively, Jon sets his hand on Sam's shoulder for balance. Sam’s skin is soft and cool with a gentle give to it when Jon rests his weight on it. Jon’s touched Sam’s shoulders before, for comfort or for reassurance or because he was making excuses to touch Sam. Sam’s shoulders were never bare any of those times. He’d thought about them bare, though, wondered how it would feel; now that he’s _doing_ it, it’s a little heady. He curls his fingers over the crest of Sam’s shoulder, grounding himself. Sam leans slightly into his touch.

 _I can’t do this,_ Jon thinks wildly. He’s going to die, or implode, or his brain’s going to come _oozing out his ears_. He could pull back and they could turn on the movie and forget the whole thing, but. If he backs out now—after practically groping Sam’s naked shoulder—it’s going to lead to questions. Awkward ones Jon doesn’t want to answer. _I made it this far,_ he thinks.

Gathering his nerve, he reaches out his other hand. Tongue between his teeth, he arbitrarily decides a first freckle. He touches the very tip of his forefinger to it.

"One," he says, too quietly. Biting his lip, he trails his fingertip against the freckles as he counts.

 _Two. Three. Four._ Only barely brushing Sam’s skin, whispering the numbers.

Counting is harder than Jon’d thought it would be. There are so many freckles that they blur together under his eyes. He’s seeing double, dizzy because he keeps forgetting to breathe. He has to keep reminding himself to swallow. His thoughts scatter like pinballs, too distracted by proximity for the numbers to stick in his head.

By the twentieth freckle, all Jon can hear is Sam’s breathing. It’s uneven, hitching sometimes in tiny stilted gasps, each making Jon’s stomach twist. With his hand on Sam’s shoulder, he can _feel_ Sam breathing.

On the twenty-fifth freckle, Jon wonders what Sam’s thinking right now, and stutters through number twenty-six. Has Sam thought about Jon touching him before? Jon’s knees are wobbly. Where would Sam like to be touched? Sam’s breath went shallow when Jon traced near the back of his neck. Would he like to be kissed there? Jon’s heart gives an unsteady lurch. He can’t think about kissing Sam’s neck. If he does, he’ll do something incredibly foolish. Like doing it for real.

 _Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty._ He says ‘forty’ twice by accident and corrects himself, cursing his clumsy tongue. He glances up to see Sam craning his neck, watching Jon over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Jon whispers. "I can't keep track."

"It’s okay," Sam murmurs back.

Jon realizes abruptly that his hands are sweating. He pauses to rub them on his sweatpants. Maybe Sam hasn't noticed. Jon fights the urge to apologize, fearing he'd draw attention to the clamminess. Another wave of anxiety threatens to crest, and Jon closes his eyes. Breathing deeply, he forces them tighter and tighter until colors burst like an oil slick beneath his eyelids.

Exhaling, Jon opens his eyes again. He puts his hand back on Sam's shoulder, less tentative than last time. Then he hesitates, his other hand still hovering inches away.

"What number did I get to?" Jon whispers.

"Um," Sam says. "Forty. I think."

With all the freckles swimming before his eyes, Jon can't remember which freckle he counted last. There are too many, the clusters too erratic. _There’s no hope of counting them all,_ Jon realizes. It makes him want to laugh. It's impossible with so much losing his place and doubling back. But. He doesn't want to stop touching Sam. 

Jon taps a freckle at random. "Did you know you have freckles here?" he asks. He's still whispering. He doesn't know why.

"I suppose," Sam says. "I never thought about them."

"They're all over," Jon says, a tinge of wonder in his voice. He wonders if Sam can hear it. He wonders if he wanted him to.

His free hand is shaking. Hoping Sam can't feel the tremors, he traces lightly along a row of freckles in a near-straight line. He follows them from there to another cluster, sketching connections between them. He invents constellations: a lightning bolt, a swirl, a gentle arc.

Sam exhales. "What number are you on now?"

Jon stills. "I don't know," he whispers. 

Trying to quell the nerves, Jon draws another lazy loop through Sam's freckles, his fingertip only barely grazing each fleck. Sam isn’t moving away, frozen under Jon’s shaking hands.

Jon raises his eyes slowly, trying to guess whether he’s admitted too much. He’s unprepared to meet Sam’s eyes, Sam craning his neck to look at him. 

Fingers faltering, Jon stops. His breath catches in his throat and realizations click jerkily into place: Sam is very close. Sam's pupils are huge and dark. Sam’s lips are pink and full. Sam’s breath is warm against Jon’s mouth.

 _He’s so close,_ Jon thinks again, dizzy, and then Sam’s leaning in.

Jon freezes, hands fluttering uselessly to his sides as Sam kisses him. His head’s buzzing with too much sensation—the softness of Sam’s mouth, the slight prickle of stubble, the brush of his nose against Jon’s cheek, the sweet citrus smell of Sam’s shampoo. By the time he realizes he isn’t kissing back, Sam’s already pulling away.

 _No,_ Jon thinks in panic, grabbing Sam’s shoulder to yank him back in. His mouth bashes against Sam’s in nothing like a kiss. Sam makes a muffled, pained noise. 

Wincing, Jon pulls back, muttering, “sorry, sorry,” against Sam’s mouth. He forces himself to loosen his grip on Sam’s shoulder.

But Sam doesn't let him get far, stopping him with fingers twisted in his shirt.

“Try again?” Sam whispers, not meeting Jon’s eyes.

Relief pours through Jon, pushes a huff-laugh through his lips. He reaches out to cup Sam’s cheek, and slowly tilts Sam’s head towards his. 

It’s better. Much better. He rubs his thumb over Sam's cheek, parting his lips against Sam's. It's just enough to almost taste him. He mouths at Sam's lower lip, feeling the fullness of it; he traps it between his own. He takes in the feel of it, exalting, only to let it slide free so he can press another kiss to Sam's mouth.

Sam makes a small sound. Encouraged, Jon presses closer, thrilling at the way Sam’s body yields against his. Sam feels incredible against him, soft and pliable and warm. His hands go stroking down Jon's back, sliding around to Jon's waist. In the past, Jon had imagined ways Sam might touch him, but he'd never thought about Sam touching his back. He'd never have thought it would feel so good.

Exhaling, Jon pulls back to lean his forehead against Sam’s. He slides his hands down the curves of Sam's sides to his hips, his breath catching Sam shivers.

"I've wanted to kiss you for..." Jon swallows. "Forever. Your mouth..."

" _My_ mouth?" Sam says with a breathy note of incredulity. "Have you _seen_ yours?"

Jon’s face gets hotter. So Sam _has_ thought about kissing him.

"Rather kiss you," says Jon, nonsensically, and leans back in.

They kiss again. Still slowly, but now Sam opens his mouth against Jon's. Jon gasps and kisses him harder, pushing closer. It's slicker now, their mouths sliding together with wet smacking noises, only interrupted by the quiet huffed breaths they catch.

When they stop to catch their breath, Jon realizes his lips are swollen. They’re tender, a little achy; he can feel his pulse throbbing in them. The rest of his body has gone electric, goosepimples scattering across his skin. His blood feels like it’s molten in its veins. Sweat sticks his curls to his temple.

He's hyperaware of everywhere Sam is touching him: Sam’s forehead against his, Sam’s hands on his waist, Sam’s torso pressed to his own. They're close, and it's amazing, but somehow not enough. There's so much that Jon wants. He wants... he just _wants_.

Jon steps back from Sam and tugs his t-shirt over the back of his head. He drops it on the floor, trying not to panic—is it too fast? does Sam even _want_ to look? God, has he just ruined _everything_?—but Sam's eyes are drawn like magnets down the line of Jon's sternum. His gaze slips still lower, and the heat in his eyes makes Jon shiver.

Sam makes an aborted movement, reaching out and then catching himself. His face is strangely guilty. _He’s not sure he’s allowed to touch_ , Jon realizes.

Swallowing, Jon takes Sam's hand in his. The urge strikes him to kiss Sam’s fingers, but instead he guides Sam’s hand towards him. Watching Sam's face, Jon covers Sam's hand with his and presses it flat against his chest. He drags their hands slowly downward, not looking away from Sam’s face. The expression there, something like awe, is making it hard to breathe.

Shivering, Jon releases Sam's hand, smiling shyly when Sam looks up at him with a question in his eyes. He steps closer again, leaning in for another soft kiss.

Despite its lightness, this kiss is headier somehow now that it’s skin against skin. It makes Jon want to plaster himself against Sam, to get as close as he possibly can. Jon breaks the kiss again to lean his forehead against Sam’s, trying not to get distracted by all the places they’re touching. His hand, resting on Sam's hip, twitches. He slips his fingers just lower, tentatively toying with the elastic waistband of Sam’s sweatpants.

He glances up through his eyelashes, trying to figure out if Sam’s thinking about what he is. Sam’s watching him back, his big eyes dark and heavy-lidded. 

“Do you—” Jon starts, and stops, licking his lips.

“I mean,” Sam says. “We could.”

Jon’s heart is beating very loudly in his ears. “We can,” Jon says.

“Do—” Sam breaks off. “Do you want to?”

 _Yes_ , Jon thinks with a yearning verging on frustration. “Only if you do,” he says instead, shier than he means to.

“I… Really?” Sam says. “You really do?”

Jon flinches. “If you don’t want to—”

“Of course I want to!”

“Not ‘of course,’” Jon replies testily, his hands stilling. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Well, I do,” says Sam. “It’s just—you’re so beautiful—”

Jon scoffs.

“No, I mean it,” Sam insists. “You’re—everyone’s always looking at you. You could be with anyone you wanted.” 

“ _That_ isn’t true,” says Jon firmly. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, because I want to be with you. If you—if you want me to be.”

Sam licks his lips, uncertain. “Are you _sure_?” he asks in a very small voice, like he thinks it’s all a mistake, a misunderstanding, and hearing it breaks Jon’s heart.

“Sam, I’ve had—” Jon bites his lip. He doesn’t want to say how long he’s had a thing for Sam. Jon’s kept it from him for an embarrassingly long time. The rest of Jon’s friends mock him _daily_ for all the mooning and pining.

But Sam never thinks anybody would find him attractive, let alone _pine_ for him. It’s been bothering Jon for as long as he’s liked Sam: being proof Sam's wrong, and being unable to tell him. Now there’s no reason Sam shouldn’t know. Jon sighs. 

“I’ve had a thing for you for years,” Jon says wearily, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything because you’re my best friend.”

“I—” Sam starts, and his voice cracks. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, ducking his head. His face is prickling with unpleasant heat.

“I didn’t realize,” Sam says.

Still looking at the floor, Jon lets the air out of his chest in a long _hhhhhhh._ “Everyone but you knew,” he says. “People make jokes about it. You’ve heard the ones in gym class.”

“That’s just Mr. Thorne, though,” Sam says. “He’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, well,” Jon mumbles, closing his eyes. “He’s still right.”

A few seconds later, Sam’s hand comes to cradle Jon’s jaw, gently tilting his head back up. Jon opens his eyes. Sam’s face is sweet, and his eyes are earnest, and it almost hurts to look at him.

“I’m glad he was right,” Sam says quietly, and he presses another soft kiss to Jon’s mouth.

Jon leans into it, warmth and relief spreading through him. With his eyes closed, Sam’s mouth gentle on his, he’s once again hyper aware of Sam’s skin against his. It hits him that his fingers are still hooked into Sam’s waistband. He pulls back.

“Um,” Jon says, and bites his lip, and looks down to his hand.

Sam follows his gaze, and colors. “Oh,” he says. “Did you—”

“I mean—” Jon says at the same time.

They stop, looking at each other with wide eyes. Then Sam starts giggling, shaking his head, and Jon laughs too. He takes his hand back from Sam’s hip.

“I—” Sam starts. “I feel like—should we? Shouldn’t we wait?”

Jon doesn’t want to wait. But. There’s truth in what Sam says. It’s sudden. He swallows. “I can’t tell.”

“Maybe,” Sam says. “If we’re not sure, then maybe we shouldn’t.”

Jon exhales slowly, disappointment and relief squirming in his gut. He closes his eyes, leaning forward to hide his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, sliding his arms around him. Sam’s hands come gently around to Jon’s waist.

“You’re right,” Jon says, muffled by Sam’s shoulder. “Do you want to just watch a movie or something?” 

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs in his ear. “We were going to watch _Mulan,_ right?”

“Yeah,” Jon says.

They break apart, slowly and reluctantly, and look at each other for another long moment before Sam laughs a little and lets go. He turns around to finally get his sleep shirt. Jon averts his eyes and, going a little pink, picks up his own shirt. The memory of stripping it off out of the blue replays in his head. In his embarrassment, he yanks it back over his head too forcefully, and gets a little stuck in the sleeve.

 _Fuck._ Jon squirms and twists, shoving with his elbows until he frees himself. Huffing in frustration, he forces his head through and tugs the rest of the shirt down, flattening out the wrinkles. Finally situated, he looks up to find Sam watching him, laughing silently.

Jon flushes. “Shut up.” 

“Were you having a little trouble there?” Sam asks.

“Shut _up_ ,” Jon groans.

Sam laughs, out loud this time, and Jon ducks his head to hide the reflexive smile—Sam’s laughter is contagious, which continues to be really unfair when he’s laughing at _Jon_. He bumps Sam’s shoulder with his own as he passes him on his way to the Playstation.

Jon snaps the DVD out of the box and feeds it to the console, flicking off the bedroom light while he’s there. He turns around, about to go sit on his bed, where they’d been watching movies earlier, but Sam’s not sitting. Instead, he’s hovering by the side table, looking uncomfortable.

Jon gives him a questioning look.

“Is it—” Sam starts. His eyes stray to the bed. “It’s not going to be different now?” 

“No,” Jon says immediately, more confidently than he feels. “This— it doesn’t have to change anything.”

Slowly, Sam puts his hand on the bedspread. “It does change some things, though,” Sam says softly, looking down at the bed. “That’s not a bad thing, but it does.”

Jon bites his lip. “We can sit on the floor,” he offers.

"We don’t have to,” says Sam, twisting his hands. “It just feels like there are different rules now.”

“I don’t think there are rules,” Jon says. “Just… do what feels right. Don’t do what doesn’t feel right.”

Sam looks at him, finally, and half-laughs. “You make it sound so easy.”

“I want it to be easy,” Jon admits. “It should be easy.”

“Should we—can we pretend it’s easy? Until it gets easier?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Jon says. “Yes, actually. Can we do that?”

“We can try,” Sam says, and finally lowers himself down onto the bed.

Relieved, Jon picks up the controller. He crosses over to the bed and, after a brief hesitation, clambers up next to Sam and presses play.

He sits stiffly as the movie’s intro plays. Ink lines becoming mountains, then the Great Wall of China, where a soldier signals of the Huns' invasion. Throughout it all, Jon's stomach churns, his shoulders tight and tense. He’s too aware of the distance between him and Sam. His eyes slide over to Sam, who’s holding himself just as still, focusing just as intently on Mulan's morning routine.

Jon frowns. They watch movies together all the time. There’s enough room on the bed for them both, but they never sit this far apart. They're never this determined not to even let their arms brush. Earlier today, watching _The Breakfast Club,_ they’d been relaxed and comfortable, leaning against each other. The tension now is wrong. 

_Pretend it’s easy,_ Jon thinks.

Slowly, Jon leans to his side until his shoulder brushes against Sam’s. Sam relaxes almost immediately, letting out the breath he'd been holding. Jon closes his eyes in relief.

“This okay?” Jon asks.

Sam wets his lips. “Yes.”

“Okay,” says Jon.

He leans more confidently against Sam. Sam leans back. Mulan brings her father tea, gets dragged through preparations for the matchmaker. Jon's seen this movie a thousand times. It’s familiar to the point of mindlessness, and yet Jon can’t seem to focus on it.

When the matchmaker begins yelling at Mulan, Sam bursts out, “It’s not as if we haven’t _done_ this before.” He sounds frustrated. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“You’re nervous?” Jon asks. Concerned, he presses pause on the controller.

Sam exhales. “My hands are shaking,” he admits.

Swallowing, Jon reaches out to cover one of Sam’s hands, turning it over slowly. When Sam doesn’t stop him, Jon takes Sam's hand into his own. 

“We’ve done this before, too,” Jon says softly. “Do you remember? I thought my heart was going to explode.”

It wasn't long ago. They were with Pyp and Grenn, hanging around in the woods. Pyp had been getting increasingly abrasive to the point where he was provoking Jon. Jon was crossing over from annoyed into angry when, rolling his eyes, Sam took Jon's hand in his and squeezed. No hesitation, not the slightest hint of fear, and Jon's irritation vanished. He spent the rest of the night in a daze, too distracted by his hand in Sam's.

Now, Sam’s looking down at their hands. “Just from this?”

Nodding, Jon turns their hands over, threading his fingers with Sam’s. Looking down at it makes his chest feel too full, but he doesn’t want to look away.

It's quiet for a moment, and then Sam says suddenly, "You were right." 

Jon blinks. “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve said that to me.”

“I—you’re exaggerating. I don’t correct you _that_ often,” Sam says.

“Pretty often,” Jon says.

“Sometimes,” Sam says.

“Regularly,” Jon says. “Constantly.”

“I do _not_ , you—” Sam stops. “You’re messing with me.”

Jon’s laughing. “I might be.”

“Ugh,” says Sam. “I should shove you.” 

“You won’t, though,” Jon says smugly.

“My hand’s busy,” says Sam, looking down at it twined with Jon’s.

There’s that feeling again, like there’s a helium balloon where his lungs should be. Jon’s smiling so hard it hurts. He can’t seem to stop, so he hides his face in Sam's shoulder instead.

When the giddiness dies down enough for Jon to speak, Jon says, “What was I right about?”

“Oh,” Sam says. “That it’s not so different. Not _too_ different, at least.”

“Oh,” Jon says. “Good.”

“Even if now we’re…” Sam trails off.

“We’re…?” Jon prompts after a moment, his heart in his throat. It hadn’t occurred to him to worry whether Sam was on the same page about this.

“We’re… together?” Sam asks. “Like. Boyfriends? Is that what… ?”

“I… kind of hoped,” Jon says, stilted.

“Oh!” Sam says. “So we’re. Together. But it doesn’t change everything.”

Jon lets go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Right,” he says.

“Okay,” Sam says, smiling. “We can—do you want to start the movie again?”

Jon nods and presses play and, feeling bolder, squeezes Sam’s hand. Sam squeezes back. Leaning back in Sam’s space is more comfortable now, more familiar. Jon’s chest feels carbonated, a thousand giddy bubbles bursting whenever he feels Sam move. He only manages to pretend to watch the movie for maybe five minutes before he gives up and lets himself sneak glances to watch. The flickering TV casts dancing shadows on Sam’s face, the dim light making Sam's freckles flicker in and out of visibility. Jon traces them with his eyes, trying and failing to count.


End file.
